Alive
by si-star-x
Summary: Originally written for a hoodie time prompt. Dean is injured during a hunt and wakes up whilst in surgery, but it doesn't affect him as much as you'd expect.


Dean has had his fair share of injuries, he'll be the first to admit it. Broken fingers, torn muscles, concussion... the list could go on. It was the chest that really screwed him up. Cracked ribs, smoke inhalation, being frigging strangled; he needed to be able to breathe deeply otherwise it made him light-headed and nauseous. Really nauseous, and throwing up just doesn't bode well with broken ribs. That was a gig that definitely didn't need replaying.

So when a poltergeist tossed him across an empty church and smashed his torso against a grand piano of all things, you can imagine his dismay. The broken ribs were evident from the get go. Every breath felt like a knife being twisted between his ribs and left in place, just for another five to find their way into the same spot during the next suck of air.

"Dean?" Sam yelled from across the stone building, wiping blood away from his own broken nose.

"S-Sam..." He could barely speak. If breathing was agony, the act of pulling enough strength into uttering even the shortest of words was torture. It only served to make it a whole lot worse, and by the time his brother reached his side, a faint bubble of pink was evident on his lips.

Dean was desperately trying to suck even the slightest amount of air through his lungs, but it was not happening. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.

"Ssss..."

Sam's eyes were glazed over in sheer terror. This was serious. Really serious. There wasn't time to think. Fuck.

They were in the middle of nowhere. There were no hospitals anywhere, and his brother was barely breathing. Faint crackles accompanied the pink foam, which Sam brushed away with the back of his hand.

"Jesus, Dean!" He exclaimed loudly, shaking fingers frantically attempting to dial a familiar number.

Somehow, within fifteen minutes, an air ambulance was landing in the vast wastelands outside the church.

"What are you boys doing here?" The paramedic asked Sam with a furrowed brow. "Dean's your brother? How did he break those ribs severely enough to puncture a lung?"

As per the norm, Sam bluffed his way through. In the helicopter he barely recalled the story which had been concocted, but at least his brother was now in good hands. They said it was serious, that his breathing was severely impaired and that the left lung was close to full deflation. Surgery was hot on the cards and it needed to happen promptly. The paramedics had already inserted a tube down Dean's throat, but at least it was keeping him alive. Sam knew first hand how those things scratched your throat to hell and made eating, drinking and talking agony for a week or so, but Dean would just have to suffer.

"Just be OK, Dean..." Sam mumbled to himself, still in a state of complete shock.

In the hospital, doctors and nurses buzzed around the gurney like flies to sugar. Sam barely had time to touch Dean's hand or speak even a word before the guy was ran down a hall and into the operating theatre.

It was there they began the process of inserting a chest tube to re-inflate the offending lung. A chest tube inserted for a hemothorax was a simple procedure for any doctor, newly qualified or experienced, but today somebody screwed up. If Dean had been awake on admission a friendly candy striper probably would have assured him that the local anaesthetic would completely numb his chest. He wouldn't feel a thing.

However, that anaesthetic was not administered. Dean was unconscious when the doctor began the procedure, when the area was turned brown by iodine, when the scalpel first hit his chest.

It was the lights that he first became aware of. Because light travelled faster than pain, and his brain wasn't quite functioning yet. He was granted ten seconds of bliss, feeling quite warm and fuzzy from the pain medication before the ordeal really began.

"I am making the incision."

A male voice seemed so far away, but suddenly the action hit far harder.

Dean knew he couldn't breathe by himself, much less vocalise the fact that he was now aware of what was happening. For an unbeknownst reason, he also couldn't move. His body was frozen. But the scalpel hadn't hit yet, and perhaps if he could find a way to just twitch a finger or something the doctor would be aware of his conscious state and either stop the fucking procedure or at least dose him up again.

Inside his head he was screaming, "Dude!", "I am awake!", but nothing seemed to make an impact on the medical team still swarmed around him.

The actual scalpel didn't feel like much. Merely a slice, a slash of a knife from an angry demon. The worry for Dean was that he had no idea what they planned to do. Were they cutting out his insides? Stitching up damaged organs?

No.

They were forcing something into that tiny incision, and holy motherFUCKER IT BURNED. It kept burning. It spread like a fire, igniting a wave of pain that spread through his chest, his shoulders, his legs.

Ow. Ow. Ow. OW.

The fire kept burning, licking up through his flesh and down into his ribcage. He had never felt pain like it before, and not being able to do anything? To be completely unable to prevent the torture? At least in hell he had a voice.

Whatever the hell they had stuck in him was going nowhere fast, and to add to the fire, a new sensation of bodily fluids gusting around a chest cavity that wasn't supposed to be open. The foreign object had jarred his ribs which he knew to be broken, and that sparked a whole other world of pain. These people were supposed to be professionals, so how did they not realise that whilst they were poking and prodding, cutting and sucking he could feel it all?

One thing to be glad of, although it felt like an eternity of fire to Dean, the procedure was relatively speedy.

In the recovery room an hour later, the fire was reduced to cool coals that had been placed under his skin. The heat did nothing to help the pain in his broken ribs either, just added to the varying sensations of agony.

He was vastly aware of the tube that remained down his throat, and as he lay staring at the ceiling, wondered when he would be able to voice his serious frigging anger that they had screwed him over. At least he could be thankful that they hadn't kept him awake during a hip replacement or appendix removal. Stupid hospitals and incompetent staff. This is exactly why he and Sam kept their injuries to themselves whenever possible.

Two days later after 48 hours of Sammy sitting, sleeping, fidgeting next to his side, they finally pulled the tube from Dean's throat. It hurt, just as Sam knew it would. Imagine a thorn-ridden plant being pulled through your trachea and larynx. It definitely hurt.

"Ugh," Dean groaned as an orderly attempted to force ice chips down his throat. He needed it, god knows he did, but it stung.

"It's all right." Sam shook his head, reaching out for the cup of chips. "I'll make sure he eats them."

The orderly shrugged as if to say 'suit yourself' and tugged his cart out of the small hospital room.

As soon as they were alone, Sam looked at Dean expectantly. "I bet you feel like hell."

He spoke softly, concern lacing his words.

Dean nodded, so desperate to express himself but knowing it would be painful.

"Hate hos-spitals." He settled with, closing his eyes briefly. "Suck."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah. They do suck. Glad you're on the road to recovery."

"Hurts." Dean found it easier to stick to one word responses. He strongly doubted his ability to string a sentence together.

"The Doc said three ribs were broken. They jammed a tube in there to drain out all the blood."

Dean's nose scrunched up, 'jammed a tube in' definitely described what he had been aware of. To be honest, at that point in time, the fact that the doctors had been negligent just washed over him. His chest was throbbing, breathing still causing the knives to stab him sporadically, but he also knew at that point in time he couldn't express his concerns to his brother.

The doctor released Dean four days later after being convinced that they were staying with a friend to recuperate. It took this long for his throat to ease up enough to talk in fairly coherent sentences. He still remained silent about the operating room, and in ways debated whether it was worth telling Sam. Besides, the hospital would probably just deny it. Anything to stop a meaty payout in court.

In true Winchester fashion, Sam drove the Impala straight to the nearest shitty motel and parked in for the long haul. As Sam pulled open the passenger door, he was greeted with the sight of Dean slouched in the seat, both arms wrapped around his midsection and looking up with red-rimmed eyes.

"C'mon." Sam coaxed, offering a hand. "I have fluffy pillows and ice cream."

Dean had to admit that it did sound good.

"In the hospital, Sammy..." Dean spoke slowly as he began to untangle himself from the Impala, "They didn't give me anything."

Sam's eyebrows were furrowed as he placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, guiding him from the vehicle. "What were they supposed to give you?"

"Ah," Dean grunted as he pulled his body to an upright position. "I was awake. When they jabbed that tube in me."

"Why didn't you tell them to stop?" Sam asked, a slight smile on his lips. Evidently his lack of response was due to disbelief.

"I couldn't move. I think my eyes were closed."

"It was a dream." Sam suggested, locking the car up and keeping a hand on the small of Dean's back to steady him.

"It wasn't a dream. It burned."

"Your ribs are shot to hell. I'm sure you still hurt even unconscious."

Dean focused on putting one foot in front of each other, gingerly, trying to avoid as much reverberation as possible. "Not a dream."

"Well then, we'll sue."

"We will sue." Dean nodded, wincing as a misplaced step caused more discomfort than requested. "We'll sue their asses for all they are worth."

"You're still delirious, Dean." Sam shook his head, smiling.

Eventually Dean found his position on the motel bed, although comfort was hard to find. "Every position hurts." Dean whined, arms still wrapped around himself in an attempt to ease some of the pain. "Make it stop hurting, will you?"

Sam looked up from his own bed, chuckling. "I would if I could. Believe me."

"Maybe if I have that ice cream, it'll help."

"That was for your throat. I don't think it'll help your chest."

"Might do." Dean retorted childishly. "Gimme."

As Sam reached down to retrieve the cardboard container, the fact it sloshed around when he picked it up wasn't a good sign.

"I think I left it too long." He chuckled, extending the cup for Dean to view the contents. Dark brown liquid with brownie pieces floating at the top. "Milkshake?"

"I was looking forward to that."

"Should've reminded me earlier."

"You should have remembered earlier." Dean pointed an accusing finger, although the arm was still locked in position. "Oh well."

"So, you really think you were awake?" Sam asked, leaving the container on the bedside table and propping his elbows against his knees.

"I told ya, Sammy. We're suing. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Well, when I can move."

"That'll be a month then."

Dean rolled his eyes. "With your love and attention, I'm sure I'll heal a lot faster."

"If you really were awake..." Sam continued, "Shouldn't you be like, traumatised?"

"Probably." Dean was close to a shrug, but avoided the motion. "But strangely? I'm not. I think I'm just thankful to be alive."

"Yeah." Sam nodded, agreeing with his sentiment. "Yeah. Alive is always a good thing."


End file.
